


Old Habits Die Hard

by clairechiaraclaro



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25709458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairechiaraclaro/pseuds/clairechiaraclaro
Summary: When your path is unknown, it is safest to stick to what you have learned. And he will.The Fae and the Weeping Monk have different outlooks on survival-based behavior. It's time for those viewpoints to clash.
Relationships: Squirrel | Percival & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 327





	1. Arthur I

**Author's Note:**

> I got through Cursed in one weekend and couldn't stop thinking about this concept, and well...this came out. Hope you enjoy!

Arthur knew that Nimue loved Squirrel. That she would do anything to protect him. That she would kill everyone that ever even _thought_ about hurting the kid. And objectively, Arthur knew he felt that way too.

But none of that stopped Arthur from wanting to strangle the boy in front of him. By the look on the Council’s faces, they wanted to do the same.

Squirrel seemed aware that he was pissing everyone off, but stubbornly kept talking and talking and _talking_. It was like the more the Council glared at him, the more inspired Squirrel was to continue. And all Arthur could think about was how much simpler life had been before a few days ago.

\------

_Arthur looked over the maps, pressing his hands to his temples. There was barely anywhere for the remaining Fae to move, between Uther’s army and the Paladins. They’d managed to isolate themselves from others, with Kaze scoping out an area of the forest up against cliffs that were easily defensible. Between the Fae warriors and the Red Spear’s army, Arthur had helped get everyone off the beach and set up into a new camp._

_But there were too many things up in the air. Nimue was missing; spies had said there was no trace of her in either Uther or the Paladin’s camp. Morgana was also missing. The Sword was gone. No one knew if Uther’s promised ships would come again. Gawain was supposed to still be in the Paladin camp. Pym had been running around like crazy, before finally yelling that Squirrel was gone too._

_And food was running out._

_“Any new ideas?” the Red Spear asked._

_“We’re essentially surrounded,” Arthur replied. “Given the state most of the fighters are in, we can’t do much other than defend.”_

_“We need to do something,” Kaze interjected. “We can’t be sitting ducks. Whether it’s a battle or a retreat, we should take action.”_

_“The women and children are not prepared for another fight,” one of the Tusks, Glace, who had replaced Wroth, said. “If we must move, it should be to find new ground, far away from all of this.”_

_“And leave our Queen?” Kaze snapped. “The Green Knight? Our two fiercest warriors, and we shall just abandon them to our enemies?”_

_The Council fell awkwardly silent at that, everyone staring at the map, lost in thought. Arthur knew his answer to Kaze’s questions, but he couldn’t force every Fae on that path in good faith. Nimue’s wish was for him to lead the Fae to safety. He couldn’t do both._

_The Red Spear cleared her throat, and Arthur’s gaze shot up to match hers. “Look, I’m not one of you, but maybe we need to consider-“_

_Her sentence was interrupted by sounds of fearful gasps outside the tent. Arthur and the Council exchanged wary glances before the gasps were drowned out by a loud thump – Arthur could have sworn it was a person falling off of a horse – before the camp went deathly still._

_“Don’t you bloody dare touch him!”_

_Arthur felt his heart race. He knew that voice. Before he could think he was racing forward, out of the tent into the blinding sunlight,_ because if he was here then maybe she was too-

_“Squirrel!” Arthur dashed towards the boy, part of his brain noticing there was no Nimue, and the camp was making symbols that warded off danger…but from what. Arthur could think about that later though because Squirrel was here, he was safe, and that was more important right now. “Where have you been, we’ve been so worried-“_

_Arthur’s voice trailed off as he saw who Squirrel was standing in front of, almost like the boy was protecting the unconscious body from the rest of the camp. If the cloak wasn’t recognizable enough, the ashen tears on the man’s face were enough for Arthur to stop in his tracks. His hand found the pommel of his sword, pulling it out of its sheath._

_“Squirrel, get away from him, now,” Arthur urged._

_Arthur was taken aback when Squirrel rolled his eyes, instead choosing to step closer to the Monk. “He’s not dangerous! He saved me, he brought me here, and he needs a healer!”_

_“Squirrel, we can discuss this later, move away,” Kaze hissed._

_“No! I’m not leaving him!” Squirrel scowled at the gathering crowd. “He’s already hurt, and he needs a healer!”_

_“Do you have any idea what this man has done to our people, boy?” Arthur could hear Glace on his left, drawing a weapon. “He deserves to pay for his crimes.”_

_Squirrel just scowled harder and stepped even closer to the body. Almost at the boy’s command, the horse moved closer as well, creating another line of protection for the Monk. “I will not let you hurt him!”_

_Arthur sheathed his sword. He stepped forward, trying to de-escalate the situation. “Squirrel, be reasonable. We can’t possibly allow him to stay.”_

_Arthur could see Squirrel getting desperate. The boy paused for a moment, and that one moment let Arthur reach forward and grab Squirrel, pulling him by the arm away from the Monk so Kaze could go forward, but Squirrel fought like a daemon, screaming bloody murder and Kaze approached the body, drawing her knife until-_

_“He’s Fae!”_

_Arthur could feel the shift in the camp, the shocked silence freezing everyone in their places. Arthur was so surprised he lost his grip on Squirrel, the boy then racing to stand by the Monk again and knock Kaze’s weapon out of the way._

_“He’s Fae,” Squirrel said again. “Look.” Squirrel kneeled down, taking the unconscious Monk’s hand in his. And truly, if Arthur hadn’t been right there, he would’ve thought Squirrel had gone mad. But with his own eyes open in surprise, Arthur watched as Squirrel pressed the Monk’s hand to the ground and the green trailed up._

_If it was possible for the camp to become even more silent, it did. And in the silence, Kaze echoed the words on everyone’s mind. “What the fuck,” she whispered._

_Squirrel, now vindicated in his argument, continued. “He’s one of us! So can someone please do something other than just bloody stand there!”_

_Arthur glanced up at the Council members, all still staring in shock. He was human, he had no voice in this decision._

_“Squirrel’s right, we can’t kill him,” Kaze said, eyes still focused on the body, despite the fact the Monk hadn’t yet moved, and his status as alive was beginning to be more of a question than a statement. Kaze moved back to stand at Arthur’s side, her next words muttered so only the Council could hear. “But we can’t exactly welcome him with open arms. What do you think?”_

_Arthur honestly didn’t know. He had never been in a situation like this. He cleared his throat, trying to think. “Um…put him in one of the tents. Unarmed, in irons. And Kaze, guard him. See what we can do about the wounds.”_

_Squirrel looked like he watched to pitch a fit. “That’s it? That’s it?!”_

_Arthur turned to the boy, fixing him with a stare. “Yes. If he wakes up Squirrel, we will deal with him. But until then, that is it.”_

\------

That had been four days ago. Kaze and her tribe had cautiously agreed to guard the Monk, with daily reports. Apparently the Hidden was reaching the Monk and healing him, which was creeping out the Fae, which put the entire camp on edge. No one could quite believe that the Hidden, the entity that protected and cared for the Fae, would also care for the Weeping Monk.

Kaze had reported on the third day that the Monk was awake, and seemingly healed enough to move about. Squirrel had taken that as an invitation to spend all his time with the Monk, despite literally every other Fae being against it. Kaze in particular had not enjoyed the new circumstances, though she had grudgingly admitted that the Monk was not being threatening, rather just sitting in silence and listening to Squirrel.

And because a day had gone by without incident, Squirrel had decided to petition the Council to allow the Monk more freedoms. And by petition, Arthur meant Squirrel had stormed into the Council meeting and started shouting.

“…and he hasn’t even done anything while in the camp, he’s abandoned the Paladins, and he’s been met with us locking him up, which is not a welcoming feeling. And yes, he’s done bad things, but he still deserves a weapon – he should be able to defend himself at the very least. He’s not useful if all you do is keep him captive, and you’re just putting the whole camp on edge-“

“Squirrel.” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and raised his other hand to stop the boy from talking. “I will meet with the Monk. I will not promise anything.”

Squirrel frowned, crossing his arms. “He’s got a name.”

The Moon Wings representative made the Fae symbol to ward off evil. Glace spat on the ground. Squirrel glared back at them with equal vigor.

Arthur sighed. He had almost been happier in the heat of battle when death was imminent. “Come, Squirrel.” He turned to the Red Spear. “Continue without me.”

With that, Arthur walked out into the camp. Squirrel seemed to be happy to have someone listening to him, striding forward with purpose through the tents to the small one where Kaze was outside, her hand clenched on her sword. Arthur nodded at her before walking into the tent, bracing himself, with Squirrel following behind.

For all of the mystery and fear surrounding him, the Weeping Monk was slightly underwhelming.

The man was kneeling on the ground, his hands manacled in front of him. As Arthur entered, the Monk raised his head, revealing eyes like steel that gave nothing away. Arthur kept his hand on his sword.

“You’re the Weeping Monk.”

“Yes.” The Monk’s voice was barely there, quiet and raspy.

“Squirrel told us you saved him.”

The Monk was silent for a moment before looking down. “The boy is an innocent. He did not deserve what the Fathers had in mind.”

“And others do? Gawain did? You’ve murdered Fae for years. Why should we trust you now?”

Behind Arthur, he could hear Squirrel scoff. “I didn’t say you had to trust him, I said he could be useful. No one ever bloody listens, do they, and I’m just-“

“Percival,” the Monk said softly.

Arthur didn’t know what he was more surprised about – that the Monk knew Squirrel’s real name, or that at the Monk’s request, Squirrel had gone silent.

The Monk did not look up to Squirrel, but instead raised his head to Arthur, but he wasn’t looking _at_ Arthur, he was looking at Arthur’s chin. Arthur was struck by the choice – it was the same thing Arthur had done as a boy when facing his superiors. Bors. His uncle. Did the Monk view him the way Arthur viewed those men?

The thought did not make Arthur feel any better about this situation.

“One action will not excuse the hundred others I have done,” The Monk began. Arthur had to strain to hear him. “But I am no longer with Fath-with the Paladins.”

Arthur nodded, taking the statement in stride. “And you’re Fae.”

He saw the flinch – the imperceptible stiffening in the Monk’s shoulders that meant Arthur had struck a nerve. The Monk’s eyes dropped down further, now staring at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know of any other Fae like you.”

“The Ash Folk…they have been gone for a long time. If any remain, they do not live in these lands.”

Arthur didn’t really know what to say to that. He glanced to the side, where Squirrel was watching the conversation, while unsuccessfully trying to seem like he wasn’t paying attention.

“Squirrel, would you please leave us?” he asked.

The boy immediately began to protest. “There’s no reason for me to-“

“We will be alright,” the Monk interjected again. “Percival, go.”

Again, all Arthur could do was watch in surprise as Squirrel frowned, but did as the Monk asked and left the tent. He turned back to the Monk, who remained kneeling stiffly. Arthur couldn’t imagine that it was a comfortable position, but the Monk didn’t seem bothered.

“The Fae don't believe in harming their own, no matter what previous actions, so you won't be killed. And I can’t imagine the Paladins would be open to the idea of a ransom. So if you’re going to stay, you’ll provide what you can. But there will be rules.”

The Monk simply bowed his head. The man’s quiet agreement was honestly putting Arthur on edge, but he pressed those feelings down and continued.

“We will take off the chains, but you will be guarded at all times. You will not leave the camp’s barriers; the people are already unhappy with you being here. I don’t want to hear a single report of fighting. Squirrel appears to trust you, and I would recommend you don’t make me regret leaving that alone. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”

Arthur did not like being called that. At all. The way the Monk had spoken – faintly, no emotion, but with that undertone of gratitude that can only come from being told what you’re allowed – was unsettling. The Monk did not say anything else, so Arthur moved to update Kaze.

As he was leaving, the question that had been bubbling up inside him finally broke loose. Arthur turned back to see the Monk still kneeling, watching Arthur warily from under the hood.

“You didn’t ask for a weapon,” Arthur said. “Why?”

The Monk titled his head up, still not making eye contact. “You did not give me permission to do so.”

Arthur couldn’t find a response, so he nodded and left. But as he went about his duties for the day, the Monk’s words were repeating, again and again and again inside his head. It was the Monk’s ease with the situation that was disconcerting; he had accepted orders like he had been doing so his whole life, and interpreting Arthur’s words as unchangeable rules in a way even Arthur hadn’t thought was possible. And the idea that not mentioning weapons meant the Monk wasn’t even allowed to speak of one, and that the Monk was comfortable with that…

All Arthur could think of, from the moment he walked out of the tent to the when he laid down on his bedroll for the night, was what the hell had happened to the Weeping Monk in the Paladin camps?


	2. Squirrel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow...I've just got to thank everyone for the support for this story. The amount of love I got for this first chapter was insane, so I'll quickly say thanks and let you read on. Hope you enjoy!

Squirrel settled himself onto a log, slightly off of the main eating area. Pym had been smothering him all day, trying to get him to play with the other children, which was the last thing on Squirrel’s mind. The Green Knight had made him a knight, and Squirrel was determined to make him proud by protecting the Fae.

Particularly Lancelot.

Squirrel knew that he would always be indebted to the older man, no matter what personal feelings said otherwise. Lancelot had refused to stop Goliath for longer than necessary, riding day and night. He would let Squirrel sleep leaning against him while riding, but Lancelot hadn’t even bothered to touch a tree to somewhat heal himself; the only goal had been putting distance between themselves and the Paladins. It was a wonder that Lancelot had only passed out once they’d reached the Fae camp. After having a few days to think about it, Squirrel realized that Lancelot had probably not allowed himself to succumb to his injuries until Squirrel was safe.

So Squirrel was going to repay the favor as best he could. He had seen how Lancelot was being treated by the other Fae: wherever he walked, people would spit on the ground and make the Fae symbol for warding off evil. And yes, Squirrel agreed, Lancelot had done terrible things, but he was trying. Though it didn’t help that Lancelot looked like the Widow and stared at everyone as if he was appraising the best way to kill them.

There was a blur of black at the corner of his eye, and Squirrel turned to see Lancelot kneeling on the ground even further from the eating area than Squirrel was, his eyes focused on the food in his hand. The Fae he was nearby pulled away, only relaxing once they saw Kaze behind him, one hand firmly fixed on her sword with the other holding her own portion. Squirrel rolled his eyes. For all their preaching about acceptance and tolerance, the Fae were a judgy bunch.

Without a moment of hesitation, Squirrel picked himself up and walked over to Lancelot, ignoring the surprised looks of the other Fae. Kaze looked like she wanted to protest, but stayed silent. Squirrel was used to doing things others disagreed with, and the camp knew once he put his mind to something, he wouldn’t be moved.

“So what did you do today?” Squirrel was also used to carrying the conversation around Lancelot, but he figured he would at least offer the opportunity to talk.

Surprisingly, Lancelot did answer. “There were Fae lost in the forest. We found them.”

“Cool. Guess that power of yours is coming in handy, huh? Pym keeps wanting me to help out in the healing tent, but that’s boring. Maybe I can go out with you and Kaze, try to help track down survivors. Or we can spy on the other armies! The Green Knight always said I was good at climbing the trees.”

Lancelot’s head was hidden by his hood, but by the way he was fidgeting with the bread in his hand Squirrel could tell he didn’t like the idea.

“You should stay within the camp,” Lancelot replied. “It’s safer.”

“Nowhere is ‘safe,’” Squirrel shot back.

Lancelot nodded in agreement. “You should go sit with your friends. The Fae do not like that you spend so much time with me.”

Squirrel scoffed. “I’m always spending time around the wrong people in their mind. They had the same attitude towards Nimue in the village. They’ll get over it.”

Lancelot didn’t reply to that, instead ripping the bread and handing the larger piece to Squirrel. “Eat.”

Squirrel saw Kaze roll her eyes from where she was leaning against the tree. This was another problem. No matter how little food there was being given out, Lancelot would give some to Squirrel. He appreciated it, but Squirrel was also beginning to see the toll it was taking. Lancelot was acting like he had before he collapsed. Squirrel pushed Lancelot’s hand away.

“You need it more than me.”

Squirrel didn’t realize how true of a statement that was until he watched Lancelot bring the bread back, treating it with a reverence Squirrel had never seen. Food was scarce, yes, but Lancelot was acting like it was the most important thing he possessed. Squirrel felt guilty for agreeing to the extra food beforehand; how many times had Lancelot given, with the expectation that he would do without?

\------

Something was burning.

Squirrel looked up from the knife he was sharpening to hear shouts from the older Fae. Abandoning the knife, Squirrel ran toward the chaos, grabbing the pail of water he saw. Squirrel sprinted through the rows of tents until he found the others, trying to throw water on the tent. Squirrel followed suit, before circling the tent until he spotted the entrance.

There was a baby Tusk in there.

Squirrel ran forward into the tent. The air was thick with smoke, making his eyes water and his throat burn. Squirrel persisted, moving through the hot air until he could hear the baby crying. Squirrel reached down, coughing, wrapping the baby in his arms.

He turned to make his way out of the tent, but the smoke was so thick Squirrel could barely see the entrance. He turned again, tears streaming down his face as he tried to get through the fire. But there was nothing; Squirrel could barely make out a path. He hugged the baby closer, trying to protect her face.

Squirrel felt someone grab his arm, and suddenly he was being yanked through the flames and the smoke. As his vision cleared, Squirrel faced Lancelot, who looked angrier that Squirrel had ever seen him.

“Percival!” Lancelot was pulling him away from the burning tent, past the people working to put the fire out, looking him up and down. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Squirrel coughed again, bringing the baby up higher to show Lancelot.

“You should have told me there was a child in there,” Lancelot snapped. Ironically, this was the loudest Squirrel had ever heard him. “Never, _ever_ , run into a fire! It doesn’t matter if you avoid the flames, the smoke will kill you!”

“ _You_ ran in after me,” Squirrel pointed out.

“Ash Folk are not affected by fire,” Lancelot answered. “And _you_ need to think before you do things like that!”

A Tusk warrior ran forward, looking furious. “Monk! You were given specific orders…”

The Tusk’s words faded as he took in the scene. Lancelot immediately moved back several feet, standing with his head bowed as he did in the Paladin camp. Squirrel stepped forward so that he was between Lancelot and the Tusk.

“It was my fault. I ran into the tent for the baby, but the smoke was too thick. Lancelot pulled me out.”

Squirrel could see Lancelot stiffening in the corner of his vision, and with a sudden shock, Squirrel realized what he had called him. Great. The poor man couldn’t have any secrets; Squirrel had already told the entire camp that he was Fae, and now Squirrel had revealed his real name.

The Tusk didn’t seem to notice the slip, instead reaching forward to take the baby out of Squirrel’s arm and nestle her in his arms.

“She is my brother’s,” the Tusk said softly. He looked between Squirrel and Lancelot, seemingly unsure of what to do next, before simply nodding. “Thank you.” With that, the Tusk walked away, the baby in his arms.

Squirrel turned back to Lancelot, who was frowning at him. “What?” Squirrel asked. “You’ve already told me off for running into a burning tent. I don’t need another lecture.”

If it was possible for a frown to harden, Lancelot’s did. “You should not try to protect me,” Lancelot finally said.

Squirrel felt like screaming, but bit his tongue. “Someone has to.”

\------

“Squirrel. Why am I being told that you’ve been sneaking into the cloth stores.”

Squirrel cursed under his breath before turning to see an incredibly unimpressed Kaze.

“I’m not sneaking,” he said, buying time to form a good excuse. “I am perusing.”

Kaze’s unimpressed expression did not change.

“Fine,” Squirrel conceded. “I’m looking for a new cloak for Lancelot.”

Kaze quirked an eyebrow. “The Monk wants a new cloak?”

“Lancelot doesn’t want anything,” Squirrel replied, fixing Kaze with a look. “I’m here of my own volition. His cloak is burnt from running into the fire a few days ago, and it’s old, not to mention he looks like a bloody omen of death. I don’t think it would kill him to wear a color other than black.”

Kaze looked like she was taking Squirrel’s point under consideration. She was silent for a moment longer before walking through the piles of fabric. Squirrel followed suit, continuing to look for a fabric Lancelot would actually wear.

“You’re very close to the Monk,” Kaze stated.

Squirrel nodded as he held up a dark green fabric before putting it back down. “His name is Lancelot. And yeah, I guess. He’s a bit of a prick, but he saved my life. And he hasn’t got anyone else. I’m used to being friends with people the Fae hate.”

Kaze nodded in return. “Nimue.”

“Everyone thought she was a daemon,” Squirrel explained. “Because she was hurt fighting a Dark God. Which was stupid. Obviously, it’s not the same case, but Lancelot’s not that bad of a person. He’s just done bad things."

Kaze didn’t reply, but she didn’t seem put off by Squirrel’s explanation. Something caught her eye at the back of the stores and she went to it, moving away dresses and shirts until she pulled out a well-made, navy blue cloak.

“That’s perfect,” Squirrel said. It was clearly new, and it was still dark enough that he didn’t think Lancelot would immediately protest.

Kaze smiled, holding the cloak out to Squirrel. “Why don’t you go give it to him? I’m sure the Mo-Lancelot would be happy to see you. He’s in his tent.”

Squirrel beamed back at Kaze, letting her know he was grateful for the attempt to move away from the Monk moniker. He grabbed the cloak and ran through the camp, dodging others on his way to Lancelot’s tent. Squirrel nodded at the clansman guarding before dashing inside.

Lancelot raised his head, meeting Squirrel’s gaze with the tired, slightly intimidating look Squirrel had become used to. It was the look Lancelot gave when he wanted to be left alone, but Squirrel also decided to ignore that.

“I’ll be out of your hair in a moment,” Squirrel announced. “But I wanted to give you this.” With that, Squirrel revealed the cloak, handing it to Lancelot.

Lancelot reached for the cloak the same way he held food – with awe, as if he couldn’t believe he was being given something. Squirrel remained silent as Lancelot ran his hand over the fabric, his mouth open in slight surprise.

“I figured since I’m the reason your cloak got ruined, I might as well replace it,” Squirrel said. “And you must’ve had that one for what, two years?”

“Five,” Lancelot whispered.

Squirrel decided to overlook the slightly alarming comment, instead nodding. “Yeah. So. You’ve got a new cloak. I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Percival.” Squirrel turned back to see Lancelot smiling at him. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Squirrel said.

As he left the tent, Squirrel could feel the smile growing on his face, but it was tempered. Lancelot was obviously older than him, but even in his earliest memories, Squirrel had never been _that_ excited for new clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tent fire ex-machina, anyone? lol. Let me know what you thought of this chapter, or the story as a whole! Until next time 😊


	3. Kaze

There were pros and cons to the Weeping Monk living in the Fae camp, Kaze had decided.

Were most people on edge and avoiding him for fear of being killed? Yes.

Was the camp’s effort to track lost Faes now incredibly more efficient? Also yes.

Kaze had been wary of the Monk in the first few days after he’d woken up, not quite believing Squirrel’s rescue story. But as the days had gone on, it was clear that the Monk wasn’t a spy; first, he was incredibly unsubtle when he found something of interest, and second, the Monk seemed to care more about placating those around him than gathering information. The only thing she had heard from the fellow guards, that her own experiences confirmed, was that the Monk followed orders to a fault, not giving a moment of hesitation. He accepted every rule given with nothing more than a nod.

As time had gone on, the camp had slightly softened towards the Monk. Or at least, had become more confident that he wasn’t going to murder them all in their sleep. The Monk had been crucial in tracking down the remaining Fae and providing them shelter, and the irony of his skills’ usefulness was not lost on Kaze.

If she had to guess a clear turning point on the camp’s opinion of the Monk, it would be Tavola’s tent catching fire. Kaze had been trying to coordinate getting water, but like the rest of the onlookers, could only watch as the Monk stormed straight into the flames, pulling Squirrel and the baby he was holding out before laying into Squirrel for acting before thinking. Many were thankful to the Monk for saving the children, but it was the fact that Squirrel seemed to actually listen to the Monk that stayed ingrained in peoples’ minds. Sure enough, whenever Squirrel refused to do something, Fae would seek out the Monk to gruffly ask for his help with convincing the boy.

Now, Kaze would admit it was nice to have Squirrel actually listen to an adult for once in his life. And she had definitely asked the Monk to keep the kid in line on multiple occasions. But the more Kaze interacted with the Monk, the more apparent it was that that man had absolutely no regard for his own life. The ‘running into fire’ incident seemed less and less like a brave act to protect two children and more like the Monk’s normal behavior. It was the same thing with giving Squirrel most of his own meal – not a single thought of self-preservation existed within the man.

And there were other things about the Monk’s circumstances that were concerning. As soon as Kaze had looked at the man, she could tell he was barely four and twenty; and she had heard stories of the Monk for at least thirteen years, if not more. But the implications of that were something for another day’s contemplation.

The best thing about having the Monk in the camp? Finally, a damn good sparring partner.

Practically every time Kaze was on the rotation to watch the Monk they would spar. He looked surprised whenever she would give him his weapons, taking them with the most cautionary hold she had ever seen, carefully checking them for nicks before sparring, and would return them to her without prompting. It was like he didn’t consider his weapons his own. But she could overlook his idiosyncrasies for the joy of working with an amazing fighter.

The Monk moved like he was born holding his swords; everything was fluid and thought out before Kaze could think of a single counter-attack. She had yet to win a match between them. Fighting was the only time the Monk seemed to be comfortable and fully let himself go from the stiff structure he maintained. Kaze found herself learning from the Monk’s moves, and the short times when they would spar were quickly becoming one of Kaze’s favorite activities.

Kaze ducked under one of the Monk’s blades, coming up on his right, slightly out of his vision. Even with the change of cloak that Squirrel had engineered, the Monk’s hood still provided a slight blind spot. Kaze knew getting out of the Monk’s immediate sight was the best chance she had at winning, considering how well the Monk could track her. Staying out of the Monk’s sword range, she managed to knock the first blade out of his hand before coming around on his right with her blade.

As per frustratingly usual, the Monk moved, dipping backward and completely avoiding Kaze’s swing. Kaze stumbled forward, and that’s when the Monk struck. He kicked out, striking Kaze’s knee and sliding forward until his other blade rested at her throat.

“Match,” he said.

Kaze growled, but nodded, putting her blade down. “I will win one of these days, I swear to you.”

The Monk nodded back, removing his own blade and sheathing it. “Your eyes dictate your moves.”

“Duly noted.” Kaze titled her head, realizing that in the fight, the Monk’s hood had been thrown back. She had never seen him without it; he looked so young. The Monk – no, Lancelot, she had told herself she would try to use his real name – looked down, avoiding her gaze by quickly turning to find where his second sword had gone.

“Bloody hell.” Kaze cursed the words that had come out, but she felt chilled to the bones seeing the brand in Lancelot’s head. It was clearly old too. How awful could the Paladins be, to do that to their own?

Lancelot stiffened under her gaze, going completely still. Kaze could see his hands shaking slightly, but he didn’t turn, just letting her observe like he was some sick exhibit. Kaze shook herself out of her horror, knowing objectively that this needed to be dealt with before they rejoined the camp. If anyone else saw that, the tentative goodwill that the Fae had shown Lancelot would disappear in an instant. In quick strides, Kaze crossed the distance between her and the young Monk, grabbing his arm and resolutely ignoring the flinch Lancelot gave from the contact.

“Come,” Kaze said, indicating a fallen tree branch with a nod of her head. “Let’s do something about that.”

Lancelot followed her without a word, instantly obeying her request for him to sit on the ground in front of her with an intensity that left a bad taste in Kaze’s mouth. Still, she gently unwound the leather tie holding his hair back before gathering it in her hands.

“You know how to plait, yes?” Kaze didn’t really wait for an answer before starting one at the top of Lancelot’s head.

“For Goliath.” Lancelot’s voice was as stiff as his body.

“That’s good. Then you can do this after the hair has grown out.”

The silence relapsed as Kaze fidgeted with the braid. She hadn’t worked on this type of hair in a long time, but she would make it work. She pulled the rest of his hair up into a bun before fixing it into position with the leather tie. Now the brand was completely covered.

“There. That looks better.”

Kaze stood up, wiping her hands on her pants. She walked around to help Lancelot up and had to pause. The boy looked moments away from fainting, he was so pale. It was obvious he was trembling and trying to hide it. He looked like the soldiers who came back from captivity, hating touch and having every interaction be a new battle.

“Are you alright?”

Lancelot startled, standing up so fast _Kaze_ felt lightheaded. “I’m fine.” He nodded, almost to himself, before looking at Kaze’s shoulder.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Kaze said. “I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. A lot of people have issues with that.”

“I don’t.” Lancelot sounded like he was convincing himself as well as Kaze. “You were showing me the correct way, and I thank you for that.”

“It’s not the correct way, it’s just-“

“No, I should have listened better, I made it more difficult for you-”

“You didn’t-“

“Excuse me – I-I-I need to-to pun...” With that interruption, Lancelot pushed past her towards the camp. Kaze felt she should remind him that he wasn’t supposed to walk off alone, but decided to leave it alone. If just asking how he was led to _that_ reaction, she didn’t feel like putting the poor boy through the realization that he’d technically broken a rule. 

As Kaze made her way back to camp, a few paces behind, she made a note to ask Arthur to modify the guarding schedule. Hopefully, a few hours alone would do Lancelot’s nerves a world of good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought of the chapter, or the whole work! Until next time 😊


	4. Arthur II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little late because I got caught up in finals, but I'm here now! Thank you for all the support, and I hope you enjoy! We're back to Arthur today :)

It was only when the meeting had ended, and the Council had left the tent, that Arthur realized the Monk hadn’t said a word. 

The Council had decided that no matter what action was taken next, they needed information on what the Paladins were doing. Knowledge was power, Arthur figured. They’d also pulled the Monk into the meeting, figuring that his own experiences would be a treasure trove.

But he hadn’t said anything. Arthur had forgotten that the Monk was there within the first fifteen minutes, and it seemed the rest of the Council had as well. It had to be a talent, Arthur thought, to make yourself disappear in plain sight.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, giving himself a moment of pause before turning to the Monk, whose gaze was securely fixed downward at the maps on the table, his hands held behind his back in the soldier’s pose. Arthur cleared his throat, and the Monk’s head shot up, his eyes fixing on Arthur’s chin again. _Bloody hell._ At least he looked better than the last time he and Arthur had interacted – the Monk’s face had more color in it. Kaze’s suggestion of an hour or two of free time must have been the right thing to do.

“You didn’t speak once.” Arthur was trying to not let his frustration show, because it wasn’t the Monk’s fault that the Fae camp still knew nothing about their allies or their enemies, but Arthur also doubted that the tentative plan he’d come up with was a foolproof way to spy on the Paladins.

The Monk tensed. “You did not ask for my opinion."

And there it was, an incredibly unsettling statement that seemed to always mark Arthur’s interactions with the Monk. Arthur sighed. “You don’t have to wait; you can just start talking. You know more than any of us, so your contributions will probably be the most useful.”

He could see the Monk digesting this information, frowning like he didn’t quite agree with it. Arthur wanted to sigh again, but instead gestured to the map. “What do you think? Is any of this worth pursuing?”

The Monk stepped closer, staring at the maps with unrelenting focus. How he could after standing completely still for over an hour, Arthur didn’t know; he himself felt on the point of collapse.

“Paladins don’t like trees,” the Monk said softly.

“…what.”

 _Surely he isn’t going to talk about the Paladins’ flora preferences_.

“The trees.” The Monk tapped the forested area where Fae spies had determined the Paladins were now staying. “It’s too easy for enemies to use them as a vantage point. The Paladins will burn the trees at least a hundred meters in any direction, and stay guarded when they are around the perimeter.”

“So you’re saying we’re never going to get close to them?” Arthur wanted to scream.

The Monk glanced up, as if he could sense Arthur’s growing irritation. “They will relax after a moon’s time. Then they will not bother to check the trees. That would be the best time to gather intelligence.”

Arthur considered the Monk’s words. That would work better, having a moon’s time to prepare for an expedition. And the opportunity to not have to engage with the Paladins would also be good for their numbers. This was good. Better than good, actually.

“Thank you,” Arthur said. “That helps a lot.”

He wasn’t sure what the expression the Monk made – it wasn’t exactly joy, and there was a weird mix of relief in there as well – but the Monk looked ever-so-slightly happy. Nevertheless, it was nicer than the usual stoic glare.

\------

“Arthur.”

“Christ!”

Arthur jumped, feeling like his heart had skipped a beat, turning abruptly to see Kaze staring at him, amused. He hadn’t heard the woman come into his tent in the slightest.

“Very funny,” he snapped.

“It was,” she agreed, smiling. “Don’t let Lancelot hear you saying that though, he’ll start talking about saying the Lord’s name in vain. Take it from someone who’s had to listen to him give the lecture to Squirrel; it’s not fun.”

Right. Sometimes Arthur forgot the Monk was raised in Catholicism, and was still fairly devoted to it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Honestly, thanks to Squirrel, Arthur’s vocabulary of swears was wide enough to keep out the religious ones. “What can I help you with?”

“It’s actually about Lancelot.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Lancelot?”

Kaze shrugged. “He’s been with us for, what, a moon’s time? I figured we might as well start calling him his actual name. He deserves more than being referred to as ‘the Weeping Monk.’”

“I suppose. So what am I needed for? I’m not exactly in the mood for a sparring match.”

Arthur still had the scar from their last encounter.

“No, that wouldn’t end well,” Kaze agreed. “I haven’t won. At all. None of our fighters have. Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing. But that’s not what I’m here for. I think he needs a hobby.”

“A hobby?”

“Why must you repeat my sentences back to me? Yes, a hobby.”

“…what did you have in mind?” Arthur couldn’t really picture the Monk picking up knitting. “And what brought this on, anyway?”

Kaze shrugged again. “Something he’s good at, probably. Foraging? More fighting? Just something. You’ve seen him Arthur; when he’s not doing something, he’s nervous. He jumps at the children running past.”

Arthur had noticed. The Monk was always asking what he could help with, and finished the work with an ease that put every other Fae’s work to shame. No task was beneath the Monk, and he was constantly ready to be put to work. But when he was told to take a break, or that there was nothing in particular for him to do, he would get stressed and anxious like someone was going to yell at him. Arthur hated that he knew what the root of the problem was: the Monk’s self-worth was tied up in his usefulness. Arthur had the same issue; it was why he never took a break. And if keeping busy also helped distract his mind from thoughts of _her_ , then all the better.

“Aye,” Arthur found himself agreeing. “I’ll talk to him, then. See if I could think of something.”

Kaze nodded and left the tent. Arthur bit his lip, trying to think of a _hobby_ he could suggest. It was a good idea – the Monk didn’t need to be constantly stressed about proving his worth.

No. Not the Monk. Lancelot. If Kaze could make the switch, so could he.

\------

“You wished to see me?”

Arthur wished people would stop sneaking up on him. His heart couldn’t take the shocks. Though with Lancelot, it was probably more of a trained behavior than Kaze’s desire to amuse herself. Arthur turned to Lancelot standing in the entrance of the tent, hands once again resting in the soldier’s position. The man was looking down, impassively staring at the ground.

“Come in; I just had something I wanted your opinion on.” Arthur gestured to the chair across from his table. Lancelot walked a few paces inside before stilling, not even glancing at the chair.

Arthur sat down. Might as well give Lancelot a height advantage – the man already looked spooked. After a few moments of silence, Arthur realized he’d have to speak for the conversation to happen.

“So. Squirrel’s running around like a headless chicken, telling everyone how Gawain made him a knight. But aside from the bow, he hasn’t had any formal weapons lessons. I was thinking that maybe you could train him?”

Arthur could practically see every part of Lancelot brace. Shite.

Maybe mentioning Gawain wasn’t a good idea.

Maybe to Lancelot, it was in between an order and an idea, and he didn’t know what to do next.

Arthur should ask. Straight-up asking Lancelot always got the best response.

But Lancelot still wasn’t talking. This was bad. Really bad. And no one was talking.

Arthur needed to talk, he needed to say something because Lancelot looked like he was going to faint or murder someone and Arthur honestly couldn’t tell which one and this was _such_ a bad idea-

“I won’t hit him,” Lancelot blurted out.

What?

Arthur could do nothing but stare in disbelief, stare at Lancelot glaring _into_ Arthur’s eyes this time, his face set in grim determination, like Lancelot had signed his own death sentence. Arthur took in Lancelot’s clenched fists, the shaking that seemed to be more from anger than from fear this time. Arthur glanced up again, straight into the burning fury of Lancelot’s eyes.

“I will not hit him.” Lancelot’s voice was measured, calm. He stared at Arthur as if daring him to try to say otherwise. And Arthur never would, how the hell could he think…

The scars on Arthur’s sword hand seemed to burn. He didn’t think about it often – the bruises from hours of practice, the breaks every time he couldn’t get the wrist grip right. He felt sick. He knew. He _knew_.

Arthur stood up, looking directly at Lancelot. The man did nothing, just stood there, ready for Arthur’s reaction. _Resigned_ to Arthur’s reaction. Fuck.

“We are not the Paladins.” Arthur kept his words as gentle as he could while keeping a firm tone. “We would not harm a child because of a mistake during training. No child deserves that. No person deserves that.”

Lancelot’s eyes widened slightly, and his mouth opened as if to protest. But he stayed silent, just nodding before staring at the ground. Well, that wasn’t the reaction Arthur wanted. New tactic.

“No person deserves it, Lancelot. And I’m glad you objected to it.”

Now _that_ was a new expression. Lancelot looked like a startled deer, but in his eyes, Arthur could see the relief, the exhaustion, the gratitude.

“Go tell Squirrel; I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

Lancelot seemed thankful for the dismissal, softly exhaling before nodding again and leaving. Arthur collapsed onto his bedroll, fatigue suddenly overtaking him. That had _not_ been fun. Absentmindedly, Arthur brought his wrist up, staring at the decade-old scars.

It struck Arthur that in some way, shape, or form, this conversation had been a victory for Lancelot, in the personal war between his beliefs and his learnings.

The thought made Arthur happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of this chapter, or the work as a whole! Until next time 😊


	5. Pym

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys...you have no idea how long I've been waiting for this chapter. I was so excited to write from Pym's POV.

Pym was a healer. Pym was not a _good_ healer. There was a key distinction.

She knew how to fix up battle wounds with minimal scarring, and do general herb remedies for the basics. She’d developed a fair amount of knowledge, enough that she was now leading the others who knew enough about healing. But she wasn’t _good_ at it. The number of poultices she’d knocked over and the number of curses she’d let out in the past few weeks attested to that.

So no, she might not be a good healer, but she wasn’t _stupid_. She knew the Monk was hiding injuries.

At first, it had been a twisted satisfaction, that the Monk refused to go to her for healing. She’d fantasized that he was scared of incurring the wrath of Nimue’s best friend, but she also figured the Hidden had probably helped with most of it and the man was just incredibly stubborn. You had to be, to deal with Squirrel as much as he did.

And then the Monk had acted like he was fully healed, and still gave Pym a wide berth, which she enjoyed, and tried to encourage as much as possible. Even though the two were essentially co-parenting Squirrel, they spent as little time as possible around each other, only speaking in single sentences and then completely ignoring the other. It was, in Pym’s mind, the best option. Squirrel had been up her arse about it, but the Monk terrified Pym. He had hunted her people for years. Little things here and there that made her adjust her opinion would not fully change it.

But now the Monk was acting injured again. He stood stiffer than normal (which was saying something), keeping weight off his back. He made sure he was always facing front, like he was protecting himself. Pym hadn’t said anything, assuming the Monk would let the Hidden take care of it again. But he hadn’t. It had been at least a week.

Men were moronic idiots. Fae men were even worse.

So Pym had decided that screw it, she was going to fuck up the tense, not-quite-agreed-upon-agreement the two had with each other. She stormed right up to where he was mending a broken sword, grabbed his arm, and yanked him up to follow her.

Somewhere in her mind, Pym was vaguely concerned that he didn’t put up a fight. But she also didn’t care because it made her job less stressful.

She let go once they entered the healer’s tent. The Monk instantly moved away, standing on the other side of the table and narrowing his eyes at her. The two always ended up glaring at each other anyway, so Pym was perfectly okay scowling back.

“You’re injured,” Pym gestured at the table, hoping he would take the hint.

And of course, he was a thick-headed Fae man, so he didn’t. “I am fine.”

“Yeah, no. That I’m-a-man-I-don’t-need-a-healer-bullshite won’t work on me.”

“I am not trying to tell you that my sex absolves me of pain, I am simply saying I have no need for a healer.”

“Once again, bullshite.”

“I do not-“

“You absolutely do, you arrogant arse!” Pym finally snapped. “I don’t care! You’ve agreed to protect Squirrel, and I’m bloody holding you to that. You can’t do it when you’re injured! I swear to the Hidden, I will get that child to come in here and irritate you until you agree to sit down and let me treat you! This seriously can’t be about the fucking _healing_ , you’ve got to have other issues, so what in the hell are they?!”

When she was finished, Pym almost had to take a step back she was so surprised. She’d never yelled at someone like that. Even when facing the most stubborn raiders, Pym had quietly coerced them into agreement. And now The Monk had her shouting. But Pym also felt really, really good, like all of the pent-up stress she’d been holding in over the past few moons had been let out. Maybe she should yell at people more. The Red Spear certainly did, and _she_ never looked stressed.

“I don’t like healers,” the Monk said, jolting Pym out of her thoughts. “They-it never-Father-“ The Monk took a deep breath before jabbering out the next sentence so quickly Pym almost didn’t hear it. “Father always used it as a punishment.”

Pym’s heart didn’t melt, but maybe it softened. Slightly. She’d heard the (child-appropriate) rendition of the Monk’s life in the Paladin camps from Squirrel, and had had enough conversations with Arthur and Kaze in passing to guess that being a young Fae surrounded by those evil men hadn’t been the best childhood.

“Well that’s alright,” Pym found herself saying. “Not liking healers, I can work with.”

“I’m sorry,” the Monk whispered.

“Not really your fault, is it?” Pym tapped the table again. “C’mon, let me take a look. Just tell me if anything I’m doing reminds you – of them.”

With a quick nod from the Monk, Pym turned to give the man a bit of privacy. She checked over all the herbs, reviewing the pastes and remedies amidst the sounds of the Monk undressing to his trousers, and sitting on the table, until finally, in the quietest voice she’d ever heard, the Monk murmured, “Done.”

Pym nodded to herself, grabbing the rosemary pot – it worked wonders as a calming agent, so she figured it’d be a good thing to have – before turning around.

The pot smashed to pieces on the floor underneath her.

The Monk’s back was a fucking _mess_. There were so many scars, in every which direction. There wasn’t a single bit of skin that wasn’t scarred, there were scars _on top_ of scars, their ages ranged from at least a decade old to just a few moons ago, and _so many_ of them looked self-inflicted and right across the tops of his shoulders were three lashes that were barely healed over, so those had definitely happened in the last week and were what had been making him stand so stiffly and-

And he was turning because of the sound of the pot breaking.

“Shite!” Pym immediately jumped down to grab the rosemary branches, subtly kicking the pottery shards away so someone else could deal with it later. “Sorry about that, clumsy me.”

The Monk didn’t say anything, which left them in _wonderfully_ awkward silence. Pym reached for one of the poultices, her mind on autopilot as she mixed the ingredients, trying to not think about the awful injuries in front of her.

“Can-“ he sounded like he was forcing the words out. “Can you tell me when you’re going to touch me?”

Pym nodded, before remembering that he wasn’t facing her. “Yeah, ‘course. I’m going to start now.”

She dipped her fingers in the poultice before spreading it over the lashes. The Monk didn't flinch, didn't so much as move as she worked, though Pym knew for a fact that this poultice stung when applied. The two remained in companionable silence until Pym really just couldn’t help herself.

“If you don’t mind me asking…how did this happen?”

There wasn’t any visible physical reaction, but Pym assumed the Monk was frowning, since it was his go-to face. There were a few more beats of silence, and Pym almost wanted to hit herself for asking, because she _always_ ended up putting her foot in her mouth, but the Monk did answer.

“It is a cleansing of sins. Father says it provides salvation.”

Pym resisted rolling her eyes, and pushed away the odd desire to murder said Paladin. “Well, I don’t agree. And you’ve been away from them a while. Some of these are new. Happened here, at camp.” She let the statement hang in the air.

The Monk ducked his head. “I made a mistake,” he said softly. “I needed to be punished. I am the only one who can bring myself to the path of His light.”

“What did you even use.”

“Goliath’s reins. They were made to fulfill two purposes.”

Pym felt queasy; she hadn’t necessarily had an answer in mind, but the one he gave was not expected. After she finished with the poultice, she reached for bandages, cataloging all of her moves to the Monk out loud.

“I hope you know that’s all a lie,” she said, matching his quiet tone. “You don’t have to punish yourself.”

“Someone should.”

Pym bit her lip, but continued. “Yes, you have done bad things, and you will probably be making up for that for a very long time. But you shouldn’t take it upon yourself like that. The Paladin’s salvation isn’t something anyone should strive for. And for what it’s worth, you did bring yourself to the path, or whatever you said. When you rescued Squirrel.”

The Monk hummed, not necessarily in agreement, but didn’t say anything else. Pym finished with the bandages, letting him move to re-dress.

“You should come to have dinner with us,” Pym blurted out.

The Monk turned, staring at her with a confused expression.

“I mean, me, Kaze, Squirrel, Arthur,” Pym continued, silently condemning herself to continuing. “We have dinner together sometimes, in the command tent. And it’s kind of fun. We tell stories. Arthur keeps going on and on about his sword skills, and we’re getting sick of it. It would be nice if someone knocked him down a peg.”

And, to Pym’s complete and utter surprise, the Monk laughed. Well, it might’ve been a laugh. It also might have been an amused huff. But it was still the most positive emotion she’d seen from the man yet, and secretly, Pym was very happy about being the one to make it happen.

“He likes to twirl his sword around,” the Monk said. “It’s inefficient.”

Pym assumed that was the Monk’s version of an insult and grinned, her grin only widening when the Monk matched it with a small smile.

“Well, let’s go then," she said, her glee growing with every moment. "I can’t wait for this.”

Pym walked out of the tent, the Monk beside her, his cowl left down around his shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I think it's ironic that Lancelot would make fun of Arthur's dramatic sword movements when this man literally does gymnastics when fighting? Yes. Do I also think they both deserve to be made fun of for their flamboyant fighting style? You betcha.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought! Until next time 😊


	6. Gawain

The past few moons, in Gawain’s mind, had been nothing short of an absolute clusterfuck.

The Church had gained control of the lands, while the actual king did nothing. Fae villages didn’t exist anymore. And then the Fae had had to flee Nemos. Bergerum was dead. Most of the Fae warriors Gawain knew were dead. Nemos had been destroyed. The Paladins’ greatest weapon was a forsaken Fae. And even though he knew more had happened, Gawain’s last memory was the Paladins pulling Squirrel away from him.

But then he’d woken up in Uther’s abandoned camp, fully alive, and with no idea how. He’d staggered out, avoiding any of the remaining men. He tried to search for Squirrel, but there were no signs of the boy, and he had to assume he was dead. The thought filled Gawain with sadness and rage, but objectively he knew it was not the time nor the place for emotion. He had to leave. Gawain made his way to the edge of camp, taking weapons and supplies as he stole a horse and traveled away from the bloody battleground.

It had been two days, alone and desolate, before Morgana appeared to Gawain, startling him out of his sour thoughts. She hadn’t said much, definitely hadn’t explained the whole Widow thing, only staying for long enough to direct him to the stream. Apparently she and Merlin were going off on a magic-discovering journey, whatever _that_ meant, but Gawain couldn’t bring himself to care. There was no point.

But when he had reached the stream, that changed. There was Nimue, two arrows in her chest, barely breathing. But barely breathing was still breathing. Gawain’s body went on autopilot as he worked, breaking the arrows off before heating his blade as a cauterizing agent to stem bleeding. Nimue remained unconscious throughout all of this, which was bad. Gawain had stripped her out of the wet clothes and built a better fire, and wrapped Nimue in a cloak he had found. It had been days, with him just waiting as Nimue’s fever rose and fell and rose and fell. But she had woken up. She had gotten better. And that was what mattered.

Gawain could remember the times when they both had been younger, when Nimue had run to him for his help with scrapes and sprains, with questions for stories. Gawain had tried his best – he had only been seven and ten, looking at the young girl who was so excited to hear about adventures. That had been a different time. But Nimue was like a sister to him, so even if they were the last Fae in the world, Gawain would protect her with his life.

Well, probably not the last Fae, Gawain had thought bitterly. The Weeping Monk would still remain, forever serving the Paladins.

But he could think about that later.

It had taken weeks for Nimue to regain her strength, until one day, she was well enough to start riding. They’d first journeyed in silence, with no idea of where they were going. Gawain had always been fairly quiet, but Nimue’s change was stark and severe – she remained lost in her thoughts, regret and pain and anger clearly at the forefront. Gawain’s heart ached for her.

The turning point of their journey had been when they’d reached the beginning of the forest. While tracking for food, Gawain had spotted signs – the Old Fae that directed lost ones to camp.

_They weren’t the last ones._

The two had immediately set onward, desperate to reach their brethren. Gawain almost couldn’t breathe, because he just needed to see Fae camp, to know they’d survived, and he knew Nimue felt that way too, that she wanted her people safe because the fact that they weren’t was her fault, and it was his and _he just wanted to be with the Fae_.

And then they had. Days later, when they were exhausted, filthy, and still recovering from their injures, they had stumbled on a Faun guard, who probably had gotten the shock of his life seeing the presumed dead Green Knight and Fae Queen. But he had looked happy to see them, smiling as he directed them to the command tent, where the Faun said Arthur had been coordinating the Fae.

Gawain was oddly proud of the man blood, taking command in this way. And he hadn’t missed the joy in Nimue’s face when the Faun had mentioned Arthur.

So they’d stumbled through the tents in the dark, following the path to the center where the large white command tent lay. There were sounds of laughter echoing, and as Gawain approached closer, he could hear people talking.

“All I’m saying is you once _cartwheeled_ in a fight, and yet I’m ‘inefficient’ for twirling the blade?!”

“It was easier than running the six paces to reach my opponent. What does twirling do other than waste energy?”

The second voice sounded fairly familiar, but Gawain couldn’t quite place it. He stopped at the tent’s entranceway for a moment, but Nimue walked forward with a giant smile on her face, and Gawain had a sudden feeling of panic as she pulled back the tent flap and-

“You!”

The inhabitants of the tent had all shot to their feet, their faces all alight with different expressions. Kaze, Pym, and Arthur were staring at Nimue with unbridled joy. _Squirrel_ , sweet Squirrel who Gawain had thought dead, was glancing between Gawain and Nimue, his face changing from a frown to smile to frown at a rapid pace. Squirrel was also glancing to his right, at the fifth person in the room.

The Weeping Monk.

Gawain honestly didn’t know what to think. The Monk was here. The Monk was in the Fae camp. The Monk was not killing Fae. Squirrel seemed almost protective of the Monk. Everyone in the tent seemed at ease with the Monk.

But the Monk didn’t look at ease. He looked like death itself had come for him. The Monk was just staring at Nimue and Gawain, his eyes flicking back and forth between them. The rest of the Monk remained stock-still, completely frozen.

He looked different, Gawain thought. His hood was down, for one, revealing brown curls tied up in a bun. His cloak was different too, and it softened the harshness that the Monk exuded. Gawain’s eyes made contact with the Monk’s, and Gawain was struck by the intense fear in the Monk’s eyes, framed by the dark marks under them. The man looked terrified, and it made Gawain take a step back.

Nimue had no such qualms. With a violent expression on her face, Nimue stormed forward to the Monk, giving him a withering glare before striking him across the face.

The tent froze in silence.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Nimue spat.

The Monk didn’t say anything, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. He hadn’t even bothered to touch his cheek, he just stood there and waited.

“You and Father Carden, doing your God’s work,” Nimue sneered. “Well he’s dead now. I killed him.”

Gawain could see the Monk starting to tremble at that, and most shockingly, Gawain could see Nimue almost enjoying it. He knew she was angry, but this almost seemed cruel. From the looks on the rest of the tent’s faces, they agreed.

The Monk was fully shaking now, but he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, like he was waiting for the next hit. And Nimue looked ready to give it.

Oddly enough, it was Arthur who stepped in, pulling Nimue away to face him. “Lancelot, go get yourself water.” His instructions were firm, but kind, like Arthur knew what was going through the Monk’s head.

So his name was Lancelot.

Lancelot didn’t wait, bolting out of the tent. Nimue looked like she wanted to protest, but one look from Arthur and she stayed silent. The entire tent remained silent, which meant they could all clearly hear Lancelot retching outside before he walked out of earshot.

Nimue turned to Arthur, clearly expecting answers. The others made their way to Nimue, all talking at once in a flurry of words Gawain didn’t bother to try to understand. Squirrel, however, made his way to Gawain. No. The boy completely walked past him, making for the tent’s exit.

Gawain grabbed Squirrel by his jacket, pulling him back. Squirrel’s gaze immediately shot up, his mouth open to protest, but Gawain fixed him with a look.

“No,” Gawain said. “Let him grieve to himself.” There was no doubt that that was what the man was doing, because while the Fae held no love for Carden, Lancelot did.

Squirrel frowned, but nodded, slowly moving his arms around Gawain to hug him. Gawain did the same back, directing the boy out of the tent, and the surefire disaster that was soon going to happen. While he loved Nimue, today someone else could deal with her anger.

“Come, Squirrel. We can trade stories. I’m sure there are moons of hijinks I should catch up on.” And hopefully, Squirrel could explain the events that had led to this point. Once Gawain had all the facts, he could determine how he felt about all of this.

As the two were making their way out of the tent, Gawain felt like he could finally breathe. The air was less tense outside.

“He’s _what_?!”

As, yes. There was Nimue’s response to Lancelot’s true nature. Gawain sighed. This was going to be a long night.

\------

A few hours later, Gawain slowly walked over to the river bank where Lancelot was sitting. He stepped as loudly as he could, giving Lancelot plenty of time to register his presence and react. He didn’t.

“Are you here to finish your Queen’s job?” If said by anyone else, Gawain could imagine it being a biting statement, but in Lancelot’s tone, it just sounded resigned.

Gawain sat down next to Lancelot, giving the man enough space, and stared out over the river. “Nimue is angry right now. At the world, at herself, at others. She is reacting without thinking. I am not like that.” Gawain studied Lancelot, but nothing was revealed under the man’s stony gaze. “Squirrel told me what you did. I am glad you found your way to us.”

Lancelot scoffed. “Everyone acts like saving one child is absolving. It’s not. People should stop talking about it.”

Gawain was surprised by the amount of anger in Lancelot’s voice, seemingly self-directed. He nodded to himself. “Alright. If that is what you wish.”

The two fell into silence again, though Gawain didn’t find it particularly uncomfortable. With the soft sounds of the river underneath them, it was almost peaceful.

“He wasn’t as bad as everyone thinks.”

Gawain let the statement hang in the air. “Carden.”

Lancelot turned to stare at Gawain, the surprise evident on his face, as if he hadn’t expected Gawain to understand. Gawain stared back. It was odd to see Lancelot’s desolate expression, considering how well the man maintained a blank stare. Lancelot turned back to the river, fiddling with the grass in front of him as he spoke.

“He raised me, taught me, protected me from-“ Lancelot’s voice cut off. “He did so much for me.”

Gawain took a moment to think of how he could word his thoughts in a way Lancelot would appreciate. “What Nimue, and many more are beginning to learn,” he began, “is that the world is not in black and white, but shades of gray. Bad people can do good things.” He turned to Lancelot. “Good people can do bad things. Carden nurtured you. It makes sense that you would grieve him.”

“No it doesn’t.” Lancelot was scowling out at the water as if his gaze could set the entire stream ablaze. “Not when you think about it.”

“He ripped me from my village when I was barely six. I was starved, beaten, trained. They forced me to lead them to villages, to kill the survivors. He taught me I was damned, demon-born, and this was my only path to salvation. And I believed it; I committed myself to his cause. I learned the scripture. I practiced until my hands bled. I cut myself off from any trace of the Fae. I made myself into his perfect soldier. I did not speak without a command, did not waste supplies on myself, did not stop until the job was done.”

Lancelot’s description of his life was so matter-of-fact, with no emotion attached. Gawain could feel the last of his apprehension towards the other man racing away.

“I should hate him.” Lancelot’s whisper held no anger, no pain, just a statement. “But I do not.” He fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt. “Just another thing wrong with me.”

“No one can tell you how to feel,” Gawain disagreed. “Not even yourself.”

Lancelot huffed, which Gawain took to be disbelief, but other than that stayed silent.

“Being conflicted does not mean something is wrong,” Gawain continued, determined to argue his point. “Your situation is unique, yes, but that also means unique emotions will come from it.”

There was only silence. Gawain hoped Lancelot had taken the words to heart, but Gawain also knew anything further was now up to the other man.

“Do you think I’ll ever stop wanting to act this way?” Lancelot’s terse question jolted Gawain from his own thoughts. “Stop wanting to follow Father’s training?”

Gawain looked over, and to his surprise, saw Lancelot crying. The man had made no noise, his voice had given nothing away. Silent, ash-stained tears streaked his face, mixing in with the permanent ones.

Gingerly, Gawain closed the distance between the two, wrapping the younger man in his arms. Lancelot immediately tensed, but Gawain expected it and calmly waited until Lancelot marginally relaxed.

“I cannot promise it,” Gawain said, embracing Lancelot as he would any other Fae. “But I hope you will. And I know there will be people to help you.”

Lancelot’s breath hitched. With a shock, Gawain realized that was the first sound Lancelot had allowed out, and that he had immediately stopped. Gawain could feel Lancelot tensing again, like he was expecting Gawain to discipline him for it.

“Cry if you need to, brother.” Gawain brought his hand up, cupping the back of Lancelot’s head as the man rested it on Gawain’s shoulder. “I will not judge.”

That seemed to open something up in Lancelot; he began to shake with the force of his sobs, the tears pattering down on Gawain’s shirt. Gawain didn’t mind, but simply adjusted to better hold Lancelot. He didn’t know if the younger man was crying for himself, for Carden, or if it was just a wave of emotion, but clearly it had been something Lancelot needed. 

As Gawain held Lancelot, he knew that Lancelot was going to survive. He was a fighter, and could come back from his upbringing.

This was just the first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...yeah. 
> 
> I debated for ages whether or not I should end it here, but I just kept deleting extra chapters and at a certain point I didn't want to add any more. I like how it ends. I'll probably come back to this concept at some point, maybe a new fic as a sequel, but for now I'm taking a break. Classes are starting soon, and this chapter took a lot out of me.
> 
> Seriously though, I have to thank you all so much for supporting the story. I was overwhelmed with the amount of love you guys gave me, and tbh a little surprised at how much you all liked my take on the Cursed characters. It was so much fun to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Until next time, then.
> 
> 😊


End file.
